


How Long?

by Niccolò Machiavelli (Piccolo_Machiavelli)



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Machiavelli - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 17:49:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9196697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piccolo_Machiavelli/pseuds/Niccol%C3%B2%20Machiavelli
Summary: Good old-fashioned Machiavelli angst.





	

“How much longer am I waiting, my love?” she laughs. Her laugh is perfect for her, he thinks. Not too gravelly and harsh, but not entirely feminine and dainty. She is a hearty woman, grown up from the small girl she was when he had first married her. She warmed up to him quickly at the wedding, but she was bashful, blushing every time she addressed him. He remembers how many times she had called him Signore, even though he has reiterated that she is his wife. Even now, it does not feel so, many years later. Now, she’s found her voice and she’s found herself. She has yet to find him.

“Not too much longer, I don’t think.” He is uncertain. His voice wavers when he speaks and his lips barely move. His eyes are fixated on the world outside, his hands shaking in his lap. He neglects them. They have grown tired from writing and being strained. She told him, oh, she told him, don’t you lift anything, don’t you get that, but God be damned if he ever listens to a thing she says. She warned him, she did all she could, but he refuses to give up. He makes the pain worse, and all she can do is cry in despair when he turns his back. He can hardly lift them, but what can he do? There is little circulation in his hand. His face has grown pale, and she wonders when he last ate. “You keep asking that, you know.”

“You can’t blame me for wanting to hold you once more.” She joins him at the window, absentmindedly placing a hand on her lover’s shoulder. He does not let out a cry. No, he bites his lip and he keeps it in, he keeps on fighting, like he always does, but he’s given in to his own demons. He refuses the wine she offers him and eats very little, and she is the one to bring him out of his stupor so that he may dine with her and the children. It is not yet dawn. The children have not yet emerged from their beds, and he is already wide awake. No, she concludes, he must not have gone to bed last night. She cannot remember a warmth at the other side of the bed. She thinks about it, but her memory fails her. She does not know.

“What’s stopping you?” he smirks, inviting her closer with a flourish of his wrist. He winces, looking down at the floor. He cannot let her see it, but he knows she sees it. She sees everything. The crying, the nightmares, the empty wine bottles and scuffed, suffering floors. She sees everything. She moves towards him, arms slightly outstretched, and she pulls his body into hers, wrapping her arms tightly around his back. Her touch is not sexual. She does not reach anywhere but rests her arms there, on the middle of his back. She stands on her tiptoes and kisses his lips. They are dry, cracked. She leaves him longing momentarily as she goes to bring him a glass of water. Filling the glass with water from a bucket, she stares at her reflection, pausing to take a closer look. Is she haggard like he is? Naught more than skin and bones? No, she is perfectly plump, an obvious woman, possibly suffering from slight corpulence. She cannot help but think she has done him wrong. She is still able to eat and carry on, isn’t she? Does she not suffer from his ailment?

He calls her name. She fills the glass again, and the excess water spills onto the floor, but she cares not. She returns and raises the glass to his lips, not taking it away until she has made sure he has drank the whole thing. He thanks her, but there’s not much else he can do. He is sneaking glances outside when he is supposed to be looking at her. His arms hang at his sides as she holds him. His fingers twitch, longing for a pen, itching for parchment. Waiting for the pain to end, but the remedy never comes. His skin smells of sun. There is still dirt on the bottom of his robes, a stain that never came out from all of the days he spent kicking up dust. Is he close to death? He does not know. He was once, a very long time ago, but he can scarce remember it. There is no escaping the delirium that consumes him. He is lost, so very lost, but she wants to lighten the mood and think about happier things.

“May I ask you something?” Why does she still ask him for permission to speak? She bites her lip. He bites his. She is being playful. He is not. Her hands have travelled downwards but separated from his body, resting on her hips. He sneaks a careful glance before meeting her eyes again.

“Of course, anything, la amora mia. What is it?” His tone is light, pleasant. He does not bother to question her why she still asks him for permission to speak. Ignoring it completely, he licks a drop of water from off of his lip. She laughs again.  
“What would you do if you had… oh, let’s say, fifty more years to live?” she asks him, twirling a lock of her hair. She steps back, waiting for his answer. She positions herself on the steps nearby, her foot almost catching on one. She stumbles, eyes lit up, but she quickly regains her balance. He too with brightened eyes makes a mental note to watch that step when he goes down it.

“Fifty more years? By God, that isn’t even reasonable! I hardly doubt I’d last that long.” He has retained his sense of humour, and he must, for the weight of everything will kill him if he gives up his joy. A brief thought about meeting his mistress that eve comes into his head, but he pushes it away. Much to his dismay, he smiles, and so does she. Truly, his happiness makes her own. “Perhaps you should suggest a shorter amount of time, darling.” His hands have stopped trembling. They are content, but only for now. “How’s about twenty-five years?”

“I’ll settle for twenty-six. Twenty-five is just too… conventional. So, I’ll rephrase it for you: what would you do if you had twenty-six years more to live?” She is still giggling, but not too loudly. She doesn’t want to wake the children. She is hugging herself, and he wonders whether or not there is a draft in the house. If there is, he cannot seem to feel anything. It has been a long time since he truly has been able to, he realises, but he pushes this away, too.

“Twenty-six years more?”  
It is May 1527, and Rome has just been sacked. Florence fares no better. After almost a century of tumultuous rule, the Medici have once again been thrown out of power, and another republic has taken its place. Florence has suffered almost as much as he has. There was a Prince. There was a preacher. Then there was a republic wherein he had his glory days. Then there was a Prince. Then there was exile. Torture. Bitterness. A stirring in his heart that would not leave him alone. Now there is a republic. There is a hatred towards him for consorting with the Prince, even though he does not want to. Oh, how he does not want to. The Medici have begun to welcome him back, after fourteen years of servitude and fifteen longer ones in exile. Twenty-nine years he has already spent restless, and his soul is not yet settled. He has an ageing wife and children, but his soul is not yet settled. An unpublished manuscript sits upon his dusty desk, a book that tells of historical tales and statecraft. He has no one to give it to. The people he has written about are already gone. Just memories, all of them. The great tigress of Forlì. The Duke Valentino. The Pope. The zealot. All of them.  
The church bells ring outside. He does not answer their calling; he does not care for them. He never has, and it has become the subject of ridicule by many of his friends. They have become a sort of cacophony at this point in his life, but he has learned to ignore them. His only calling is from the men above who invite him as a guest to speak to him about philosophies and the times of old, the times that he wishes he could visit. His wife cannot even nudge him out of his devastation. She tries bitterly. They are gone. The Lords of Florence are gone, and the zealots have been put in their place. Jesus Christ is the new King of Florence, and it is no wonder that he scarce wants to leave his villa anymore. It is not as if he can. He is in bitter exile.  
What has he done for his family? His wife? He has been disloyal. He wishes he had not been married off so soon, but, then again, he wishes he had never been married off. His soul is not yet settled. They all suffer in poverty together, and his wife’s dearest lily-of-the-valley is wilting away. He thinks of their empty pockets and stale bread. He thinks of the future of Florence and his beloved mass of city-states. He thinks of the prince, and tries not to acknowledge the tears trailing down his face as he thinks of the republic that scorns him. Death will be coming soon. He knows it. His illness has been aggravated once again, and he swallows another couple of pills. He thinks his manoeuvre is secret, but she sees him slip the pills into his mouth. She sees everything, whether he likes it or not. They always seem to make his arms itch, but he doesn’t question why. He can only think of what he would have done differently, if he had been given the chance.  
“…that’s an awfully long time.”


End file.
